Up the eastern flank of the turreted ridge, we scrambled, without thought, for the moon. Yet, upon arrival, and far from lunar discovery, we fell once more in love with the Earth – ocean before us, moorland behind, and a slab of rock, strong and definite, beneath our feet.
I sat, within my subconscious, on that shingle beach. It was late summer and the night was warm, yet over to the east a windstorm was brewing, its peripheral gusts pushing seawater onto my cheeks. I picked up a pebble and threw it towards the ocean, losing sight of its mass long before it reached the waves. Then, in a moment of brilliance, a bowler rose before me, larger than any that night, just as the moon’s half-light broke through the density of the squall. What magic, I thought, though I knew this to be a fallacy; for all one must do to see such glory is open their eyes.
Last night I walked the Craig Cerrig-gleisiad ridgeline, following its glacial scars west and onto the summit of Fan Frynych 300 metres above the valley floor. Without moonlight and without torch the night enveloped me, until all that remained was clarity.